Long Quietus Poems | Poetry

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Long Poems
Long poem by Vicki Acquah | Details

ESCHATOLOGICAL

Everyday living becomes more of a truculent battle;
Where survival stands in the way of my living.
While Instinctively trying to live.
I need eyes in the back of my head,
while scratching out a meager existence.
Predators pulling us back from our every advancement:
The outside problem is watching,
the visceral actions of the tortured.
Those who destroy this earth then
fatuously charge us to live on it.
Witnessing one act after another,
of those reaping that which they have not sown.
Watching the ecocatastrophes
destroy the balance of nature relentlessly.
Rent Due, because we who labor;
Own Nothing - Be Taxed if you do, 
be dammed if you try.
My internal problems have worsened
from the external perennials of injustices which surround me..
Leaving me to dwell beneath the deleterious,
Also take example from those with lesser insight and intellect.
Blubbering, blithering, chicanery is going on,
while most recently we’ve been awakened
By snakes slithering into our homes,
pretending to need a nap, or some rest.
We become the test dummy, for once he crosses
our threshold we are weakened.
Why let them in you ask?
Because he seemed so familiar.
Of course, I recognized the way he slithered.
He is your seed or the fruit of my womb.
He has been here before,
recidivist, is his rancored behavior,
it brings undue guilt to those who,
Feel Love for him. When the system gave him back;
The automatic response of acceptance is visceral;
After all you gave birth to him,
Before the lobotomy and fake heart was installed,
I gave him a life.
But I gave him no eschatological, directions spiritually,
I was yet caught up in believing my innate feelings;
Still, I gave him, open minded answers;
He had no conclusion but to call on the power within him.
We all fatuously, and desperately seek spiritual help,
as we reach our breaking points.
We all must at some point, point our inward
thoughts in an upward direction.
No matter if we think it’s pointless.
Not, we’ll have nowhere to turn, no one to cry to,
answer to, or no God of our own to pray to.
Now, feeling frustrated and meaningless,
we become prey, or prey upon others.
Until the worthy ones steal away into the quietus of silence and transcend.
Those wicked incorporeal souls should wander aimlessly throughout the abyss,
seeking mercy’s kiss: Until they've paid their just dues, the just will not rest.
Until the debts from their draconian deeds have been paid in full.
let them be stay weary and eat dust, and be aggravated
until the God of mercy declares victory over their callous hearts.
Only then shall the weary be avenged, and rule this earth again.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2017

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2017


Long poem by Vicki Acquah | Details

ESCHATOLOGICAL

ESCHATOLOGICAL

Everyday living becomes more of a truculent battle;
Where survival stands in the way of my living.
While Instinctively trying to live.
I need eyes in the back of my head,
while scratching out a meager existence.
Predators pulling us back from our every advancement:
The outside problem is watching,
the visceral actions of the tortured.
Those who destroy this earth then
fatuously charge us to live on it.
Witnessing one act after another,
of those reaping that which they have not sown.
Watching the ecocatastrophes
destroy the balance of nature relentlessly.
Rent Due, because we who labor;
Own Nothing - Be Taxed if you do, 
be dammed if you try.
My internal problems have worsened
from the external perennials of injustices which surround me..
Leaving me to dwell beneath the deleterious,
Also take example from those with lesser insight and intellect.
Blubbering, blithering, chicanery is going on,
while most recently we’ve been awakened
By snakes slithering into our homes,
pretending to need a nap, or some rest.
We become the test dummy, for once he crosses
our threshold we are weakened.
Why let them in you ask?
Because he seemed so familiar.
Of course, I recognized the way he slithered.
He is your seed or the fruit of my womb.
He has been here before,
recidivist, is his rancored behavior,
it brings undue guilt to those who,
Feel Love for him. When the system gave him back;
The automatic response of acceptance is visceral;
After all you gave birth to him,
Before the lobotomy and fake heart was installed,
I gave him a life.
But I gave him no eschatological, directions spiritually,
I was yet caught up in believing my innate feelings;
Still, I gave him, open minded answers;
He had no conclusion but to call on the power within him.
We all fatuously, and desperately seek spiritual help,
as we reach our breaking points.
We all must at some point, point our inward
thoughts in an upward direction.
No matter if we think it’s pointless.
Not, we’ll have nowhere to turn, no one to cry to,
answer to, or no God of our own to pray to.
Now, feeling frustrated and meaningless,
we become prey, or prey upon others.
Until the worthy ones steal away into the quietus of silence and transcend.
Those wicked incorporeal souls should wander aimlessly throughout the abyss,
seeking mercy’s kiss: Until they've paid their just dues, the just will not rest.
Until the debts from their draconian deeds have been paid in full.
let them be stay weary and eat dust, and be aggravated
until the God of mercy declares victory over their callous hearts.
Only then shall the weary be avenged, and rule this earth again.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2017


Long poem by Ajayi Angel-Simon | Details

A REQUIEM TO MY PRECIOUS LEGS

A REQUIEM TO MY PRECIOUS LEGS: ELEGY TO MY PARENTS

FREE VERSE FOR MUM
My birth remark reads:
                                     You tramped for a season
                                          With a puffy trunk
                                      Along dangerous paths—
                              Waded on puddles and quagmire,
                                    Scuffed your flat feet and 
                          Trampled it on serpents and scorpions
                                 To bid my glorious existence…

I lost my balance
When I felt your expiration from my pubis.
I staggered in pain
Like a fowl stripped off by fierce breeze.

                                                    My physique—
Which a thousand-and-one-princesses adore—
                                                       Is distorted.
The trunk you both carry—
Through rocky hills and sloppy mountains—
Is now an elephantine for the other leg.

Oh! Your cessation is at break of dawn
      You danced to the tune that glooms souls
           You are bereft of ambling
                 On such and such burg…
                        You hurried for the Golden City.

The scorch sun and mild moon cloy
You take pleasure in the one-off of quietus…

With streams of briny water
Rolling down my cheek,
I watched you wriggling helplessly to and fro—
After being ricocheted on Death's spindly pole:
Death clasped your brawny brittle bones.
You swell, swelter, near bursting,
Impatient for suppuration in your crimson attire.

                                         Farewell!
                            You scoot the living abode
                          On mutilated soles and toes;
                                                                                 My precious leg!
                                                                         In your gracefulness,
                                                                   I created beautiful traits.
                                                 I'm left limping as you're supplanted
                                       By quasi-legs and crutches.
Will you ever return?
Even in posterity…   

HAIKU FOR DAD
                                       Dad! Why? Another crutch?
                                            Both legs amputated
                                 You couldn't stay; you loved mum.
Your Love, Angel Simon.
On Christ The Solid Rock I Stand...*tears*

Copyright © Ajayi Angel-Simon | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Broken Wings | Details

Before My Pen Is Hushed


      Before my flowing, poetic pen is hushed in Quietus,
And I have reached my journey's end with folded hands;
            Departed into my dreamless sleep beneath violets,
Let me write one everlasting, eternal, immortal verse;
                  Of the ravaged garden of my life.

      I want to hear a bird song when I quietly glide away,
With a sigh, I will lay my pale form down peacefully;
            I have willed my Keepsakes and my musing poems,
The Angel of death, will take my hand into another realm;
                  And the drums of time will cease.

      Oh, it has been a life full of happiness entwined with sad,
I have travelled many different roads to get to Tranquillity;
           The chapters of my life are full of the dead and undead,
Memories of childhood, family, friends and pets I loved;
                  The scars of life stab my soul.

      I do not fear death and I am ready to go through the gate,
But I will miss nature, the woods and the waters moving;
            And as I walk the silent passage alone to my eternal night,
Think of me as being set free and soaring high up above;
                  I lived a life weather-stained with tears.

      Leaving life is something we all must do; it is written,
I was held by a thread in this earthly realm until that last gasp;
            Now, all I know is the peacefulness of a leafy tree above,
Drifting blue clouds and rain falling gently on my resting place;
                  I was a shadow on the wall of time.

      Do not weep over my eternal grave heartbroken my dears,
I have followed the beautiful Angels footsteps to heaven;
           My poetry is timeless, ageless, and will always remain,
I have shed this earth bound life and I am a butterfly set free;
                  I drank from the deep blue cup of life.

      So come, dear hearts and plant some pretty flowers in Spring,
I am at last united with all my beloved who have gone before;
             Touch my name and remember me for my beauty,
And although my life was but a whisper, I loved every moment;
                  Now, I exist in another realm.

____________________
August 26, 2015

Epic


Submitted to the Premiere Contest Number Five
Sponsor, A Skat

Tenth Place

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Richard H. Dunsany | Details

Welcome to Murkland

Beneath the River Somnium,
Abandoned Wishes hymn: quiet in the viaduct:

Reverse the Lodestone;
Reverse the First Sin;
Reverse the Autumn Hearse;
Reverse the Universe.

We are the murk men, intangible ends—inebriated together
With Beelzebub our friend. Absolvent now in burning skin, the Piper plays our rudder;
Garudas’ quietus ballroom-mance veils lioness earthbound shudders
Vindicating tincture. 
Come speak as One or risk the Sun 
Melting e’en your physical fixture.

Rainforests, peripheral phantoms
Meshing lanterns; coalescing unwound mummy-cloth sanctums.
Opium deserts, 
Drear-dreaming desolates—we inhale brimstone, we imprison Nymph oxygen
Together Daedelus;
Einstein;
Victor Frankenstein.

Delirium waterfalls brew spirits despite ballets
Heating gloam flintlock
In Nem-kissed cabernets
Cascading pyre dunes endlessly:
Nine inward tales lost in Ambrosia unbelonging,

Scorching any falsely fairer,
Side-thrusting ineffective suffocation
With undead rapiers. Who dares desire to replace You
Shall receive Bubonic nebulas, past arbalest
Exhibiting thrones’ cobalt fire under Babylon’s command,
silent yet laughing always waiting for zero
hands cannot wait they tremble
we dissemble they commend grown avatars
youthful Avatars: hawks circling together,
Smiling, sardonically tired of this world
Trapped within thunder,

As gorgeous black does spool this secret:
Those of us who have strayed from The Path
Disintegrate into cinnamon
For common use. Therein, use the fallen well,
Persephone's stair of the past—   
only in dreams Hades’ Wint has passed
hinterland skies embracing crescents’ fast
below our lone, draped behemoth ‘cross cities’ paradox
in the midst of a nightly, playful wink. 

We daemons tacit vacant love insane.
Alucard, Alistaire, Allwein: Remove your Glove—dispatch that Vein.

Your pact with us has just begun,
Though fear us not, O Clem, who’s won?:
Escape's been reared by us—reality fears Your perennial face;
Your marrow trills—now Murkland strafes:
Quem di diligunt, adolescens moritur;
To siphon Your Color——A New Corridor.

Copyright © Richard H. Dunsany | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Richard H. Dunsany | Details

Do Not Listen, Part III

(The final part of my serial "Do Not Listen" poem. I had written this months ago, but hadn't felt confident about posting it--until now and with a few edits.)

___


Do Not Glisten, Child! of my early past.
Do you still desire to shake this Hand of the Age
so black in depth and red from nightshade?
Rather I would buy you a milkshake from a Rocket's,
and dip for but a short time in our unified happiness. To face or not to face
the sun indifferent as the Boatman?

When she's isles,
the secret plane of reality is that negative abyss, et al..
Destroy all the clocks and time does not fall,
Saturn's mind is a wherewithal, 
the seductive lilting Southern drawl
loots itself a mighty hall…and they act surprised. So very surprised
to see their blue as red on the linoleum floor.

Oh? Had you not predicted thusly,
when you two strode arm-in-arm along the thoroughfare,
with that stupid smile embracing the air? 
And what hear you there? Indeed.
The mermaid's melody, the siren's sonata
all starving for accompaniment: the percussive heartbeat of hope:
Seven kingdoms 
and a last fraying rope. A last

fraying

smile.

Ha ha ha! Why do I laugh? You know full well, but since you've asked!
Black Stereo, black clothes--black month of June! Black Yin
completely black!
Rain thine essences down upon this lowly serf,
show me the footage of a black cat 
with a caramel nose, soul of heaven,
pressing lovingly into my chest, kneading, 
purring and licking my rose
cheeks blooming above dead Western Gilgamesh,
then Garuda me as you open your mouth to dream 
'n' out ‘n’ out ‘n’ out dives soundlessly...

The Unraveling.

I cannot wait for quietus debate, barreling down like 
Do Not Listen. Clog 
goes the weasel,
clogging the years, so silence the seas
and clog your arteries
with this sweetest dessert: iced love drizzled with liquor, sprinkled 
with broken vein glass:

A Nobody’s Wish to Eat.

Copyright © Richard H. Dunsany | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Richard H. Dunsany | Details

Blue Iris

Blue Iris, 
Grimoire gondolas steal unbound human yawns,
Each Charon poised with sallow spear along the River:
Austere laughter of headless boughs 
sipping grave-scented spiritual kisses.

Gruel to Drinking Fear you do coerce,
Till evil flees the dawn within its hearse.
I shall not warn my successors, no—instead
I shall laugh 
A Godless laugh 
From this unlit, inward tower 
At the Thoms ever drawn to a fog-rent
Harbor of Lights,
Forever in flight 
t’wards a searing promise:
“The shadow of your smile when you are gone.”

Softly flows
The Months; cadence down
The end of Years,
All Great Whites closely duty-bound
Gleaned russet stress and tears.
All I do 
As gardens do
As zephyr hewn
Is wash my hands
I watch my hands
Just watch them grow—  
Closing impossible crimes
By the cold March of Time.

Shall I catastrophe? I shall wasp anew
Geronimo! hellbent swoons: withered Eye see U:
A veldt vision on this peace of death
That singes arrows unto my breast,
Non-quietus—not of suede nor hawthorn
That singing! Unveiled Vistas Reborn.

The summer breeze made chill wastrel flames,
E'en herrings dappled across minstrel viridian 
All bearing my name.  
Subtlety 
Is your root, surely as I inhale the palpitations 
Of this noxious City so small 
Yet so grand in its delusion.

Rachel or Leah? Suffice it (and damn it, too), at least Jacob’s subtle darkness 
Invited crystal warmth to dine on elegant raindrops. At Life I laugh,
And Life laughs long, dreamy along kestrel seams. I dine 
On sweet air.

Despised dream origin. 
Quickly, quickly, awaken me—unwrap 
Your blessed hearths, creature,
And begone—I despise 
Your balance of whimsy; I despise 
All of your beauty.

Copyright © Richard H. Dunsany | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Broken Wings | Details

Rose


I know that I am dying, I am fading fast,
     my life is almost over, by tomorrow I will be dead;
and I find myself on a grave stone draped in quietus,
        come the next dawn- I will be withered gone.

A girl brought me to this vast place of deep tears,
     her sad weeping wet my soft red velvet petals;
she had plucked me from my shade in her little garden,
          oh, I was so happy there growing by the fence.

I heard her say the word baby in her sadness,
     then she placed me gently on this cold tomb to die;
will I bring the baby peace- will the baby know me,
          soon we are alone, baby and me- hello I whisper.

My name is Rose, soon I will join you in the other world,
     that night I watched the moon and stars above;
for the last time I knew the dawn and then I gasped,
           all was still -  I was in the hand of a child.

The child pressed me to his lips and kissed me beautiful,
     my petals were no longer brittle cold but lovely;
and here we lay under the blue azure sky and cool earth,
         a rose and a baby boy, joined in death by eternal love.

For years we listen to birds singing and wind sighing,
     the rain gently falling and snowflakes drifting in winter;
birds in circled flight above and distant whispers of love,
          and the tears of an old woman falling on our tomb. 
____________________
August 23, 2016

Verse/Personification

For the contest, And In The Words, She Blooms
sponsor, Casarah Nance

First Place

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Ajayi Angel-Simon | Details

Is Death an Igbo Man

IS DEATH AN IGBO MAN? Quietus: ‘Nna Grave, this is Quietus from Vaults and Sons International. My containers don arrive?’ Grave: ‘Yes Oga Quietus. From: —Cairo—Syria—Boston—Kangan— —Somalia—Monrovia—Sudan— —Iraq—Afghanistan—Pakistan—Congo— —Russia—Yemen—Israel— —Ivory Coast—Rhodesia—Burkina; but some of the goods (carrion) were mutilated, and left for Vultures.’ Quietus: ‘Ok. I get business for Kangan(1960). Oga at the top has finally heard His people’s cry by reason of their taskmasters.’ Grave: ‘Goodluck Sah!’
©Angel Simon 2013 Amidst global political upheaval and terrorist pandemonium which has increased mortality rate incessantly, this poem (written in a dialogic format) is a conversation between two business partners- Oga Quietus(Death) and Grave who both trade in Carrion (dead bodies). The ethnical and symbolic relevance of the Igbo Man for Death is because Death shares some of the typical Igbo Man's commercial doggedness. Some of which are industry, enterprise and adventure. Death is really industrious in his Carrion business as we see his branches in the above mentioned nations topping its supply list from Grave. Enjoy!

Copyright © Ajayi Angel-Simon | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by John Rhinem | Details

Splashed

Amid once roseates mirroristic muse borne reflections ~

Images now manifesting themselves inside the dampened blink of time to find

But a bitter root spawning within jestives mocking mist touching it all....

A hearts turning unto the tainteds brushed in such bluish black?!

Shades encumbering frameless days to impede silent breath

Cast into the haze caught afore solitudes sight; this

Charcoaled aneath grays changling canvas tracing dreams; tampered thoughts....

Dreamt upon an empty palette; stilled, by these quietus hands!?

Turning unto jaded an emerald forest of loves hopes risen from

Innocent visions bearing light awakened so very deeply inside ~

Stigmatized, while gazing into the divertive face of autumns newest moon....

Piercing this glass formed in silver made hues; shadows etching royalistic palms left

Waiting for a mornings dew dipped colours to someday soon, reappear?!

Renewing what has been stolen; mingling betwixt the blood of, red laced sins

****************************************************************

...."Splashed" ~

Copyright © John Rhinem | Year Posted 2012

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